A Sherlock Story Set in the Harry Potter Universe
by IronyisCleverer
Summary: I've had this idea for a really long time, and while I update very slowly, I feel like this really needs to exist. So get this: John is a muggle born wizard, and Sherlock is a pure blood genius, but he is a squib. This is their story.
1. Next Year

At 10:43am on September 1st, King's Cross station was full to the brim with people, each with their own narrative and destination. They bustled about with their heads bowed, hardly stopping to wonder at anything... unusual that they might happen to see. Each man and every woman was in their own little world. However, most of these were quite dull and I shan't bother you with them. Instead, let us focus on one particular little boy and his mother.

John Watson was a small boy of eleven years, with dark blond hair, blue eyes, and a lightly freckled nose. He was not tall or imposing for a boy his age, but there was a certain sturdiness about him which you can be sure playground bullies were well aware of. At first glance, he was a fairly average child.

Much less average were the contents of the sizable trolley which he was pushing before him. Perched on top of an enormous trunk was a large owl in a wire cage, and it was glaring hungrily at the little birds that swooped in and out of the station.

John seemed just as nervous about his owl as anyone else who approached it, which was odd considering the bird belonged to him. In fact, he seemed rather nervous about everything. He kept glancing about the station, searching for something.

"Can you see it, mum?" John asked. They were standing between platforms nine and ten, and they were getting more anxious by the minute. How were they supposed to get on a train that didn't have a platform? 9 and 3/4 had sounded funny enough on the ticket, but now they had arrived and the platform simply wasn't there.

"No, I haven't a clue." His mother said, worried. "I suppose we should ask somebody, but somehow that doesn't seem like a good idea. We're getting funny enough looks as it is."

At that moment, a family of four stopped next to them, directly blocking their view of the barrier between platforms 9 and 10. The family consisted of a mother, a father, and two boys. The first boy was tall and looked to be about seventeen. Though his expression was impassive, John thought privately that he didn't look very agreeable at all. The second boy was younger, perhaps about John's own age. He had a mop of dark curls and sharp blue eyes. Even under a large jacket, one could tell that he was very skinny.

Whilst his parents spoke to the older boy, the younger one turned to John and his bewildered mother and said,

"You walk through the barrier between 9 and 10."

"I'm sorry, what?"

"You're carrying an owl, and you look confused. You must be muggle-born and therefore don't know how to find the platform. If you run at the barrier between platforms 9 and 10, the train is on the other side."

"Hurry up, we're going!" That was the older boy. The younger rolled his eyes and turned to rejoined his family. Sure enough, they strode briskly toward the barrier and vanished, leaving John and his mother gaping behind them.

They exchanged glances.

"Well then." John's mother said, taking him by the hand. "Come on, John. If we're going to look like idiots, we might at well do it together." She helped him wheel the trolley around, and they began to move toward the barrier with increasing speed. And just as John was beginning to feel sure that they would crash, they passed through. In front of them lay a crowded platform and a gleaming red train.

John sighed with relief as the last corner of his trunk fell into place with a loud clunk. He looked around the empty compartment. What now? His mum had left (his sister was at home and she needed looking after), and he didn't know anyone. He could just sit in his compartment, but his insides were bubbling with excitement and he was feeling restless. He left his compartment and pushed his way down the train and back out into the noise and steam of the platform.

He was just wondering what he had actually planned on doing on the platform, when John walked headfirst into somebody.

"Do watch where you're going."

John looked up in surprise. He had walked straight into the boy with the dark curly hair. His family was nowhere in sight.

"Oh. Sorry, mate." He said. The two stood there awkwardly, oblivious to the noise and laughter around them.

"Thanks for helping us with the barrier." John said. The boy snorted. "You were going to miss the train at the rate you were getting on."

John wasn't sure how to respond to that, so he said,

"I'm John. My name, I mean."

"Sherlock."

At that moment the train whistle sounded.

"You'd better get on," said Sherlock.

"See you at Hogwarts then." John said, turning to leave.

"No."

"I'm sorry?"

"I'm... not old enough. I'm here with my brother." Sherlock said, almost defiantly.

"Alright, next year then." John said, grinning. Sherlock regarded him quietly from under his mop of hair. Then he said, more to himself than to John-

"Yes. Next year."

The whistle sounded again and John really did have to get on the train. But as he watched the boy grow smaller and smaller in the distance, he wondered if that had really been the right thing to say.


	2. Optional Character Development

John never did see Sherlock at the station again. Their next meeting would not be for a long time. He graduated Hogwarts with excellent N.E.W.T. scores and went directly into healer training. In 1994 he became a fully qualified mediwizard. Things seemed to be going well.

But then the war happened, and his tranquil life was blown to bits.

It was early in August of 1996. He was living in London and working as a healer at St. Mungo's Hospital. He was going back to his flat to sleep between shifts. He unlocked the door to his apartment complex and entered into a dingy, dimly lit stairwell. He was out of breath, and had stopped to rest on the landing outside of his apartment.

Both he and his roommate, Bryan (a halfblood), had taken to apparating several streets away from their actual home. The two had been good friends throughout school, and even though John had suggested that rooming with a muggleborn of all people might not be a clever idea, Bryan rejected this point-blank, saying that he, "Would feel right guilty if something happened to you because you were being a stupid arse."

John remembered the other healer's reactions when he said he would not go into hiding. He had had to argue his way into the ground for his colleagues to let the matter rest, and even now they acted as though he was going to combust at any moment.

And despite how grateful John was for his friend, despite his big-talk and stubborn attitude, he could not honestly say he was not worried. He knew he would have to leave someday soon. He knew he might very well kill everyone that was ever close to him. So he wove nets of charms around his apartment. he walked for twenty minutes before he apparated so that the use of magic could not lead death eaters to his house. He stopped responding to the letters from his sister and gradually, she stopped writing them.

He did all of these things out of fear, and yet he could not bring himself to leave. It had nothing to do with the wizarding world— his background (especially given the current situation) served as a constant reminder that he could not quite belong. No, it was more to do with the magic itself. Magic made him extraordinary, and he was loath to let go of that.

So there he was, leaning against a gray plaster wall with his eyes closed.

He groaned quietly and pushed himself into a standing position. Bryan ought to be back by now, and John dearly hoped some sort of supper had been arranged. He reached for the door, keys in hand.

…only to realize it was already unlocked.

John stiffened, his hand creeping to the wand in his jacket pocket. His thoughts were racing. Did they find him? But how did they get past the charms? He took a deep breath and blinked hard. No, that wasn't it. Brian must not have closed the door properly when he went inside. Still, dread had begun to form in the pit of his stomach. Something wasn't right.

He gripped his wand so tightly his fingers felt like stone. Bryan had always been rather careless, but in the past few weeks he had evolved, becoming nearly as cautious as John himself.

John cautiously pushed the door. It swung inward without a sound. There lay the various coats, boots, sandals, hats, and scarves that usually frequented the entranceway. There lay the umbrella stand. It was on its side, contents spilled across the floor.

Odd. But was it odd enough to cause suspicion? Well, it was a bit late for that, he was suspicious already.

This entryway was narrow and made of the same gray plaster as the stairwell. A single bulb was fixed overhead: broken. At the far end was another door leading into the apartment itself. This door was open, the top hinges completely torn out.

John's breath hitched in his throat. Slowly, ever so slowly, he peered through the door. At this point he was quite sure the apartment was empty. Since he had entered the hallway he had heard neither a whisper nor even a breath. Everything was too still.

The apartment was a disaster. Pots and pans lay scattered across the floor. Cushions had been ripped open and tiny filaments were still drifting gently. As in the hallway, the light fixtures were smashed. Glass was everywhere. It looked like a tornado blown through the apartment, picking everything up and spitting it back out again.

But the worst part was the haze that hung in the air. Remnants of spells drifted along the floor like smoke. In other circumstances dully colored smog might have been beautiful. But as John walked carefully across the floor, glass cracking under his feet, sparks flying from various blackened appliances, all he could see were the events that must have unfolded not long before.

Clearly there had been a duel, perhaps even several at once. Such sudden and extreme use of magic sometimes left traces behind— thus, the colored smoke.

John processed all of this in less time than it took to describe. The sick sense of dread was still building inside of him. Dazed, he crossed the room to where Bryan's bedroom door stood ajar.

There was Bryan. He was in the far corner of the room, his dark hair disheveled and his glasses cracked on his face.

He was quite dead. The Death Eaters had come for John, and he had not been there to see it.

But Bryan had.

It wasn't until hours later, long after John had left the apartment behind him, when he remembered the wisps of emerald green smoke creeping along Bryan's cold form.

John left the wizarding world that night. He had to, for there was nothing else to be done.

Months later, when the war was over, he found he could not bring himself to face the old faces, to speak with old friends. The very thought left a bitter taste in his mouth.

So John stayed. He embraced his muggle identity. He went back to school and studied medicine (not healing, proper medicine). He made new friends. He even tried to get in touch with his sister, but he soon backed away again. He eventually joined the army.

In short, he tried to forget. As far as he may be concerned, he was the only wizard in the world.


	3. A Long-Expected Meeting

A/N: I should probably have mentioned that I have a hard time writing long things in any or all forms, which is why I usually stick to 't expect regular updates, my friends. Also, I wrote this chapter under the assumption that you have already seen "A Study in Pink." If you haven't… what are you doing.

I'm joking I swear I'm not an asshole. Enjoy the chapter.

The second meeting happened in a whirlwind of murder, witticism, and flapping coats. When Mike Stamford introduced them, he either didn't know what he was getting himself into, or he knew _exactly_ what he was getting himself into.

It was probably the latter, John thought to himself as events of the past day flashed through his mind. Their introduction at the hospital, the lurid pink corpse, the cabbie, the brother, it all had a rather dreamlike quality. One thing led to another, and suddenly he was flat-mates with the mysterious Sherlock Holmes.

And he _was_ mysterious. There was something about Holmes that caused a strange itch in the back of John's mind, even though he could have sworn he had never seen the man before. It was unsettling at best.

But anyhow.

John was on the main floor of the apartment, sitting in one of two massive chairs. It was a large room, though any elegance was offset by the fact that every inch of it was cluttered with books, papers, mugs, and stray takeaway containers. A sofa lay in one corner, on which was sprawled the mystery in question.

Holmes had a tall, lanky figure, with dark curls tumbling over his forehead and bony face. The only thing that seemed to move faster than his eyes was his wit, which was connected by an express route directly to his tongue. However, at that moment he was lying crossways on the sofa, flat on his back, with his eyes closed. Even at his most peaceful, John felt as though there should be equations curling and twisting in the air around him.

The two men sat for a while in silence. John was just wondering which bedroom was his when Sherlock stirred.

"You have questions." He said. "People usually do. If they make it this far." He had not moved from his position on the couch.

"Yes, I suppose so." Said John. A multitude of questions had been building for some time, and in his haste to pick one he blurted—

"Have we met before?"

"Do I seem like somebody you've met before?"

John hesitated, then said, "I don't know."

"Probably not then," Sherlock replied. "I should hope you'd remember a bit better if we had."

It seemed as though the two would lapse into silence again, but Sherlock went on:

"It's possible that we met a very long time ago, but I find that highly unlikely. I didn't go out much as a child, and with you being away at school all year I can't see how our paths would have crossed."

John shifted in his seat. Keeping his magic a secret had not been something he had anticipated being a problem. However, Sherlock was uncomfortably close to uncovering the truth— that is, as close as a muggle could be.

"How did you know that I went to boarding school," John said carefully.

"You are not at all close to your family," said Sherlock. "This might be due to the army or just lack of contact, but boarding school is as good an explanation as any. I didn't _know_ per say, but it was a good guess, wasn't it?"

John relaxed slightly, the sudden nerves he had felt began to dissipate.

"Of course I might also have known from the wand in your coat pocket."

And there it was.

John started, his hand creeping surreptitiously to the coat pocket in question.

"Sorry, what do you mean by that?"

Sherlock —who had been lying immobile on the sofa this entire time— opened his eyes and sat up. He was smirking. "As far as I know," He said dryly. "Hogwarts is the only wizarding school in Britain."

"Oh," said John. Then—

"Are you a wizard?"

"No."

"Then how—"

"My brother's a wizard," Sherlock said shortly. He got up and walked across to where John was sitting, and dropped himself heavily into the chair opposite to him. At this distance, his icy blue eyes were startling.

"Oh," John said again. Suddenly the strained relationship between the two brothers made a lot of sense.

"What about you, then?"

Sherlock was staring into the fireplace, seemingly lost in thought. At the question his eyes snapped back to where John was sitting across from him.

"What about me what?" He inquired.

"I'm muggleborn. I left because of the war and never went back," said John. "That's my story, now tell me yours."

Sherlock snorted derisively. "There is no story. I tried sitting at home for sixteen years and it got so inconceivably dull that I left."

He jumped to his feet once again and began rifling through the clutter which enveloped the apartment. John rose as well, and made his way toward the doorway leading upstairs. But before he left, he turned, watching Sherlock's antics with amusement.

"So, that's it?" John said.

"Yes," Sherlock replied without looking up. "Where did I— aha!" From under a pile of manila folders he drew a black violin case. And with that, it was clear that conversation was closed.

John turned and began his weary ascent up the stairs. He would be getting no more from Sherlock tonight.


	4. Magic Really Isn't My Division

A/N: Hey, I'm back. Happy New Year, because that is seriously how long I've been out of the game. Oops. Here's an extra long chapter to soothe your anger.

* * *

After this (frankly odd) conversation, things went just as anyone might expect. Sherlock did not mention the wizarding world again, nor did he comment when John started using small spells around the flat. Though neither men consciously avoided the subject, there seem to be an unspoken agreement between the two; it was easy enough to gauge that their relationships with magic and wizardry were —to say the least— complicated. And so, the matter was left undisturbed.

In the mean time, the two fell into a rhythm which they both found relatively satisfactory. John worked part-time shifts at a medical center, and in his spare hours he accompanied Sherlock on various cases. He acquainted himself with Sherlock's colleagues (whom he refused to call 'friends'). There was Greg Lestrade; a thin, harried-looking Detective Inspector who would sometimes call Sherlock down to Scotland Yard. There was Molly Hooper; who worked in the morgue at St. Bart's and smiled nervously whenever Sherlock wasn't looking.

John was unsettled by Sherlock's treatment of the Molly. He was either snarky, or he barely gave her a second glance. But then again, there were many things about Sherlock that were unsettling. His sociopathic tendencies left John in a constant state of indecision. On the one hand, Sherlock would sometimes say or do things that left John convinced the entire thing was an act, built up over time to hide some past hurt or trauma. Indeed, this was what he thought most of the time. But then, just as he would grow comfortable in this belief, Sherlock would do something so shockingly inept and callous that John could see no viable explanation other than sociopathy.

It was exhausting to say the least.

* * *

It was a chilly, January morning when certain unwanted questions arose once again. John did not have to be at the clinic until that afternoon, and was taking full advantage of a late morning. He was sitting in his usual chair by the fireplace at about 8am, tea in one hand, and a newspaper in the other. Sherlock (for once) was asleep, and the resulting peace in the apartment was as unusual as it was welcome. However, the tranquility was broken by a knock on the door.

John sighed, placed his tea on the coffee table, and got up. The knock was almost definitely for Sherlock, and John was loath to wake him.

Sure enough, Lestrade was standing at the door. His long, brown coat seemed particularly rumpled this morning, and he held a styrofoam cup in one hand.

"Oh, hello John," said Lestrade.

"Hi."

Lestrade shifted. "Look, sorry for showing up like this. Is Sherlock around? He wasn't answering his phone and I'm afraid we really need him for this one."

"He's in bed, actually," said John. "But he'll probably be up in a minute anyhow. I don't think I've ever seen him sleep more than six hours at a time."

Lestrade grunted. "That makes two of us."

"Well, if he's not up soon I suppose I can go kick his arse," said John placidly. "Tea?"

"Please." Lestrade glanced at the cup in his hand with distaste. "This one's gone cold."

John stood back to allow Lestrade him into the apartment, and it wasn't long before they were both resting easily on the sofa, steaming mugs in hand.

"So, what is this all about?"

Lestrade ran a hand through his hair. "That's just the thing, John. We don't really know. We're waiting for lab results at the moment, but there's so little to be said even Donovan agreed we might as well have Sherlock take a look."

John raised his eyebrows. "That's impressive."

Lestrade snorted. "Mind you, that doesn't mean she's happy about it, just that we've done all we can already."

At that moment there was a tremendous crash from above, and then a curse; Sherlock was awake.

John glanced over at Lestrade and placed his tea carefully on the floor.

"This should just take a minute," he said. He rose from the sofa, moving toward the stairwell in a few, easy steps.

"Oi, Sherlock," he called. "Make sure you're dressed when you come down, Lestrade's here with a case."

A muffled snort could be heard from on high. "Yes, I know. I've got three missed calls. With voicemail."

John rolled his eyes. "Be down in five." He turned and rejoined Lestrade on the sofa.

Catching his eye, John shrugged as a way of explanation, "Sherlock commonly comes downstairs wrapped in bed clothes."

Lestrade shook his head, amused. "No, I know about that," he said, but did not elaborate. He smirked, and turned back to his tea.

Ten minutes later, Sherlock was tumbling down the stairs, hair still slightly damp, but rubbing his hands together all the same. Lestrade told him the address and he was out the door in an instant, with barely even a curl of dust left in his wake.

* * *

The crime scene was a tall, narrow apartment complex painted in a drab white. Though the door onto the street was open and blocked by yellow police tape, the cops themselves seemed to have left for the time being. However, before they went inside, Lestrade produced a set of gas masks from somewhere in the depths of his car.

"You're going to need to put these on," he said.

Sherlock's expression remained impassive, but his eyebrows rose ever so slightly. Without a word, he took the mask and fixed it securely over his mouth and nose.

Entering the complex, they began a long, arduous trudge up to the fifth floor. As they climbed, Lestrade gave a brief account (slightly muffled by way of the gas mask) of what had occurred.

"We got a call at around 5:30 this morning," he began, "reporting shouting and bright flashes coming from the top floor of this building. We'd assumed there was a party of some sort going on, so Digby stopped by to see what the trouble was. He marched right up and banged on the door of the apartment and said all the usual things, but there wasn't an answer. He says he heard a loud thump, and thought maybe the person overdosed on drugs, so he went back down and got the keys from the landlord.

"When he went in he found a woman on the floor, dead. There was no sign of forced entry and there were no other exits. All of the windows were locked, but there were pretty clear signs of a struggle as well as— well, here we are." They had reached the fifth floor landing, and paused to catch their breath.

The entryway of the apartment was cordoned off with police tape, but the site was forlorn and empty. The place was eerily quiet, and for a moment John could not quite put his finger on why. Then he realized that there was no whine of electricity, a sound one usually hears even in a silent building.

"Power not working?" He asked.

Lestrade nodded. "According to the other tenants it went out sometime early this morning."

Sherlock, who had been silently listening this entire time, stirred.

"About the same time as the call, would you say?" He enquired.

Lestrade nodded. "Yeah, I wondered about that as well. It was already out by that point, though, the caller did use their mobile. It could just be a coincidence, but we can't know for sure."

"You can't," Sherlock muttered under his breath, so quietly that John himself barely caught it. With that, Lestrade ducked under the police tape and unlocked the door. The other two followed him inside.

When they entered the apartment, John caught his breath (as much as was possible with the gas mask on). The main room was fairly spacious, with a kitchenette in one corner, and a sofa and television in another. In the middle of the room, a middling-sized dining table was overturned on the floor, one leg broken off completely. The table, the cabinets, and the walls all carried strange black marks, like burns. The television had a large crack webbed across the screen.

But what was most remarkable about the scene was not the room's appearance of having been disemboweled. It wasn't even the body, lying under a blue tarp. The most noticeable thing to John was the colored smoke drifting along the floor and down the walls.

His head spun. He had to fight the urge to reach out and steady himself against the doorframe. Sherlock (who had walked in immediately after him) stopped, too, but only for the briefest of moments. His eyes roamed over the room, taking in the whole scene. His face betrayed nothing, but John could tell he was startled.

"So," Said Lestrade, sidling up from behind them. "The colored stuff. My team tried to get a sample back to the lab to test it, but whenever they tried the bottle came up empty. We don't know what it is, only that it's not moving anywhere and doesn't even really seem like gas. The masks are more of a precaution than anything else."

John made a noise similar to that of a goose. It was all just too much.

"What do you think it is?" He asked Lestrade hesitantly. "Personally, I mean."

Lestrade shook his head, mystified. "I don't know. At a glance I would say it was smoke, maybe from a drug. I might even suggest that it killed the victim. But clearly its not that... I want to say that its some sort of light, but that can't be it either. It's not like anything I've ever seen before."

"John come here," Sherlock called. "I need you look at the body."

John steeled his nerves. "You already know how she died though, don't you?" Even in his own ears, he sounded brittle and short.

Sherlock blinked, then looked at John appraisingly.

"I have my own guess, but I'll want your opinion to confirm. You know more about these things than I."

Ah, John thought. So he picked up on the magic after all. Of course he did.

He knelt by the body, knowing what he would find, yet dreading it all the same. Sherlock had immediately removed the tarp and placed it on the floor. Underneath it, the woman's body lay on it's back, arms splayed out. She appeared to have been in her upper 50s, with greying hair, and a slim, wiry figure. She was dressed in long, flannel pajamas, and a navy blue dressing gown.

John went through his customary process of examining the body, then stood up with a sigh. He turned to face Lestrade.

"Don't tell me," said Lestrade, holding up his hand. "Heart attack?"

When John nodded, he sighed. "Yeah, I had hoped you might get something different. That's what we got, too."

John was feeling increasingly disturbed by the whole facade. If the case ever came to the attention of the Ministry of Magic— which it would— Lestrade would most likely never even remember this encounter.

"It's possible she really did have a heart attack," Sherlock mused. "But give the circumstances that seems unlikely. Tell me, have you taken anything from the crime scene as of yet? Surely your team can't of gotten their hands on this and then left it the way it was. It would be most unlike them."

Lestrade ignored the jibe and shook his head. "Nope, I oversaw the entire operation and they didn't find anything worth examining."

There was no wand on the scene. That was what Sherlock had clearly meant. John, who had been feeling very strange throughout this entire encounter, finally saw his chance to escape. He moved back towards the door of the apartment.

"Well," he said in his very best time-to-wrap-things-up voice, "Sherlock, you can stay and poke around if you've a mind to it, but I've got to be at work soon."

Sherlock glanced briefly around the room, then began to make his way towards the door himself. "No, it's fine, I've seen all I need." He called to Lestrade over his shoulder. "Email me details about the victim, I'll keep you posted."

Lestrade's eyes had been following the conversation, clearly trying to figure out what had just passed between the two men. However, he seemed relieved that they would take the case, and promised that he would email any additional information.

* * *

On the cab ride back, neither Sherlock nor John felt the urge to speak. They arrived back at Baker Street, John (inevitably) payed the driver, and soon they were seated back in their usual spots by the fireplace.

"You were very nice today, unusually so," John said lightly, breaking the silence. "Had the rest of the crew been there, they might not even have been offended."

Sherlock did not smile. "I am only ever realistic. Besides, the reaction is the best part." He leaned forward and fixed John with one of his trademark stares. "And I also happen to know that you don't have to be at work for another four hours."

Memories of Sherlock calling him while he was at work and generally being a nuisance rose to the front of John's mind. "Oh, so you do know my schedule then," he said, raising his eyebrows.

"Of course not," Sherlock replied. "I only remember it when it's convenient for me. But that doesn't answer my question." "You never asked a question," said John.

"I don't need to ask a question for you to answer it."

"Just like you don't need to remember something for it to have happened, isn't that right?" John said. His vocal chords felt tight. "Let's say, for instance, theoretically, Lestrade came across a case. It seemed like an impossible case, magical, even. But the next morning, he didn't remember it ever happening. That doesn't mean it didn't."

Sherlock was silent at this. He seemed surprised at the acid in John's voice. At last, he responded, his voice quiet.

"Well then. I suppose there would be no point in us looking into this completely theoretical case. Would there, John?" "No. No point at all."


End file.
